Let me admit from the start: Matthew’s telling of the Parable of the Wedding Banquet bugs me. When you read it, it leaves you with more questions than answers. If you filmed it, it would be a horror film or an episode of Game of Thrones (Even though I haven’t seen Game of Thrones, I understand it’s pretty violent as well!).

As we read Matthew’s version of the Parable of the Wedding Banquet, it makes us uncomfortable, because it stretches reality, almost to the breaking point. Jesus begins by comparing the kingdom of heaven to a king who throws a wedding banquet for his son. He sends out his servants to those called to come, but they refuse the king’s invitation.

When the king sends them out a second time, he lets his guests know everything is ready. Some blow off the invitation and go to their farm or to work. Others capture the servants, torture them and kill them. I told you it was violent.

Yet, the violence doesn’t end there. When news of their rejection comes to the king, he not only gets mad, but he gets even. He sends his troops to wipe out the murderers and to reduce their city to ashes.

Now, this parable usually gets interpreted as an allegory with the characters standing in for someone else. The servants represent the Jewish prophets, who were ignored by the people. Some of them were even captured, tortured, and killed. The king’s son might represent Jesus and dear old dad, the king represents God.

Yet, this approach feels off to me and, maybe, you too. While we may have no problems with the prophets being the servants and the son being Jesus, we have a problem with God being the king. I have a hard time imagining God as a king who would take bloody revenge on anyone.

Oh, I left out one set of characters: the ones invited to come to the wedding feast. Now, if this story was straight allegory, they would represent those Jewish leaders who rejected the prophets and Jesus. The context of this story starts with the chief priests and elders, asking Jesus to explain by what authority, he kicked the money changers out of the temple. Jesus answers them with another question, “By whose authority did John baptize?” If they said “from God,” then Jesus would ask why they didn’t believe him. If they said “from humans,” then the crowd might revolt, because they saw John as a prophet.

Then, Jesus tells a series of three parables. First, he tells the story of two sons. While one of them promises his father he will go and work in the fields, but doesn’t, the other tells his father he won’t work, but does. Second, he tells of tenants in a vineyard. The owner sends servants to collect his share, but they kill the servants. Then, he sends even more servants, with the same result. Finally, he sends his son and they kill him too. When Jesus asks what the owner will do to the tenants, the chief priests and elders say that he will put them to death.

At this point, the chief priests and elders get the idea that Jesus may be talking about them. They say they’ll obey God, but fail to work in the vineyard. They killed the prophets and will kill the son. If they had any doubt at all, the Parable of the Wedding Banquet leaves no doubt about God’s intention.

Yet, I don’t think God’s intention is to destroy them. Instead, I think God intends to begin again. It forms the next part of the story, which begins with the king calling his remaining servants and saying, “The wedding is ready, but those invited were not worthy. Go therefore into the main street, and invite everyone you find to the wedding banquet.”

These remaining servants might represent the apostles, who went to all the known world, and called good and bad to come to the wedding banquet. The wedding banquet represents the kingdom of heaven. Elsewhere, in Luke’s gospel, Jesus says, “Then people will come from east and west, from north and south, and will eat in the kingdom of God. Indeed, some are last who will be first, and some are first who will be last."

Now, let’s be honest with one another about where we stand in line. You and me, we are the first. We believe our Christian faith gives us privileges. We believe the color of our skin gives us privileges. We believe our citizenship gives us privileges. This parable of the wedding banquet makes it clear that our privilege may prevent us from coming to the table, because we believe we’re already in.

While we may be in, we’re not all in, when it comes to our relationship with God. All of us, including me, hold something back. We place certain things ahead of that primary relationship. Yet, this parable opens our eyes, so that we may see our worthiness doesn’t come from ourselves, instead it comes at God’s invitation to come to the table.

Now, there’s one more bit of the story, isn’t there? There’s the guy who shows up to the wedding without a wedding robe. You see, in the Middle East of Jesus’ time, weddings were big deals and they still are. When you went to a wedding, you made an effort to look your best. So, it’s no surprise when the king asks, “Friend, how did you get in here without a wedding robe?” When the guy gives no answer, the king kicks him out.

Now, what’s up with that? Are you saying God won’t let us in if we’re not appropriately dressed? Well, yes, but don’t think so literally. Here’s how I see its: In the early church, the baptized would receive new robes, after they emerged from the waters. It would signify a new life had begun, one in which they tried to live out their baptism, day by day.

At times, I think we become far too casual in church. Now, again, I’m not speaking literally. I mean: when we come to church, when we live our lives, we should remember who and whose we are. When folks look at you, do they see the image of Christ?

Today’s sermon addresses entitlement as an enemy of gratitude. As we close, let me tell you what Brian Erickson, who created this series says about it. Erickson writes:

Whenever we allow ourselves to believe that we deserve what we have, or that we are somehow more worthy than another, we will find ourselves incapable of gratitude. The proper response to the king’s invitation, Jesus declares, is to run breathless to the banquet, dressed for the marriage of heaven and earth, wondering how we ever got on such a guest list.

“Before the Reformation, Jesus seemed that inaccessible to the common person. Because people couldn’t speak to him directly, they depended on the priest to speak on their behalf. But Scripture teaches us that Jesus is our priest, and that anything that kept us from direct access to him has been taken away.”

I believe that’s the entire point of Hebrews 4:14—5:10:

Nothing needs to separate us from Jesus.

He stands between God and us.

He gets us.

Yet, I wonder whether we grasp how good this news really is?

In one of our confessions, the Heidelberg Catechism,

after reviewing the entire Apostles’ Creed,

the writers asked, “What good does it do you,

however, to believe all this?”

Now, if you’ve memorized the Heidelberg Catechism,

please keep the answer to yourself,

because I want to attempt

another answer to this question.

I think it’s only natural at some point along our faith journey

to wonder, “What good does it do you, however,

to believe all this?”

It happens in different ways, at different times,

for different people.

Some of us ask this question when a loved one dies.

Others of us wonder about it when a relationship ends.

Some of us raise this question when we encounter a tragedy,

like a hurricane or earthquake or a terrorist attack.

Others of us come face to face with it when

a book or a person or another way of looking at the world

makes us stop in our tracks.

Yet, as natural as asking the question may be,

there is something else that is normal.

Let me share it how I see it.

At some level, all of us carry around a burden,

a weight of one kind or another.

Some of us may recall a damaged relationship.

Others of us may remember some wrong we did.

One way or another, most of us may feel

as if we carry the weight of the world on our shoulders,

but we don’t understand why.

Yet, I believe all of us desire the same thing.

We wish someone or something could take

the burden off of our backs.

We want someone, anyone to understand us,

really understand us.

Now, there are many places, people, and things

to which we may turn for relief.

While there is nothing wrong with most of them,

some of them are deadly,

like addictions of one kind or another.

Yet, even the best of them only alleviate some of the problem.

Here’s how I see the problem: In each of us is an empty space,

which we try to fill with a whole lot of stuff.

However, only one person can truly fills us and

only one person truly gets us—Christ alone.

Do you remember what one hymn says?

What a friend we have in Jesus,

all our sins and griefs to bear?

What a privilege to carry

everything to God in prayer!

O what peace we often forfeit;

o what needless pain we bear,

all because we do not carry

everything to God in prayer!

Through his life, death, and resurrection,

Jesus lifts the burden of sin and grief from us.

As Hebrews 4: 14-16 says,

Since, then, we have a great high priest who has passed through the heavens, Jesus, the Son of God, let us hold fast to our confession. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who in every respect has been tested as we are, yet without sin. Let us therefore approach the throne of grace with boldness, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.

We are not accepted by God because of any good works we have done or could do; we have no merits to offer as payment for the righteousness we need to come before him. That righteousness is received by faith alone, and we are justified by faith alone—faith in the incarnate Son who lived, suffered, died, and rose again to achieve righteousness for us. While that faith impels us to serve God as faithfully as we can—to “do good works”—nothing we do can win the righteousness we need to come before God, Jesus Christ has won that, and we receive it by faith alone.

“By faith alone” mattered greatly to the Reformers,

because the medieval church, from which they came,

taught that salvation needed to be earned by works.

Now, salvation for the medieval church meant

getting into heaven, escaping hell, or avoiding purgatory.

Purgatory was like waiting room between heaven and earth

in which people stopped until their sins were payed off.

Now, sins were violations of church law and

categorized from something like misdemeanors

up to a felony.

To pay off sins, the church issued indulgences,

which they sold freely.

Once purchased, indulgences would shave years off of

one’s sentence in purgatory.

Even before Luther nailed the Ninety-Five Theses on

the door of the Castle Church in Wittenberg,

a variety of Christian theologians became uneasy

about indulgences.

Yet, they grew in popularity,

because the money filled the coffers of

the bishops and cardinals, even the Pope.

They used the sale of indulgences to build great cathedrals and

to insure a luxurious lifestyle.

As Luther and others looked at Scripture,

they found no warrant for indulgences.

As a matter of fact,

they pointed to passages like Romans 3:21-31.

Paul makes it clear we cannot become righteous on our own.

In the first chapter of Romans, he quotes Habakkuk 2:4,

“Look at the proud!

Their spirit is not right in them,

but the righteous live by their faith.”

“The righteous live by their faith.”

We may say, “By faith alone,”

but I wonder whether we know what faith means.

Whenever we say, “I believe,”

do we consider what we’re getting ourselves into?

Not too long ago, I spent some time pondering this question.

You see, whenever the presbytery ordains

a minister of the Word and Sacrament,

we ask the candidate to write a statement of faith.

Most presbyteries give you one page, single spaced,

with one inch margins, and in 12 point font,

preferably Times New Roman,

to put as much of what you believe in writing.

Serving as moderator of

the Committee on Preparation for Ministry

for nine or ten years in this presbytery,

I read my fair share of these statements.

This committee reviews the statement for

obvious errors, glaring omissions, and other things.

I wrote one of these statements of faith

before the Presbytery of New Covenant ordained me

thirty three years ago.

Yet, when I wrote my Personal Information Form,

I needed to write a new statement of faith.

When I started, I became aware of

one of the most glaring omissions in most,

if not all statements of faith.

Seldom, if ever does anyone define “faith.”

While I won’t read you the entire statement,

I want you to hear the first paragraph.

I wrote:

“I believe…” Nearly every statement of faith starts with words like these. Yet, almost no creed or confession defines “believe.” The root of the word, “believe” means “to live by” or “to love.” The Latin word, credo from which we get “creed” means “to give one’s heart.” So, “believe” means more than affirming something; it means accepting the One about whom we make those affirmations. Trust might be a better word, because it suggests a relationship.

Recognizing that our feverish endeavors cannot commend us to God, we rely on divine grace—God’s unmerited goodness toward us in his overarching, never-failing love for us in Christ. We rely and depend on God’s grace for our righteousness in Christ, for daily provision, and for all the needs we have in life and in death.

Now, if you asked me what caused the Protestant Reformation,

I would say it’s the rediscovery of grace.

You see, in the medieval church,

a series of rituals created a relationship with God.

Besides the seven sacraments of the Roman Catholic Church,

the medieval church emphasized

an urgent need “to get right with God.”

It offered many disciplines designed

to bring the flesh under control.

Martin Luther provides an excellent case study in what I mean.

When he was young, he encountered a thunderstorm so violent

that he fell to the ground and prayed,

“By Saint Anne, I will become a monk.”

As a monk, Luther became a priest,

but his real profession was a biblical scholar.

He followed all the spiritual disciplines he knew.

At one point, even his spiritual director grew weary of

his constant confession and overwhelming fear.

Yet, something happened to Luther.

It wasn’t another lightning bolt,

but instead, he started to notice something in his studies.

He read Romans, chapter one, verses sixteen and seventeen,

“For I am not ashamed of the gospel; it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who has faith, to the Jew first and also to the Greek. For in it the righteousness of God is revealed through faith for faith; as it is written, ‘The one who is righteous will live by faith.’"

On October 31, 1517, a young monk named Martin Luther nailed ninety five points for discussion on the door of the Castle Church in Wittenburg, Germany. Most historians point to this event as the beginning of the Protestant Reformation. One of our greatest church historians, Martin Marty wrote a book, titled October 31, 1517. The subtitle underscores the importance of this date: Martin Luther and the Day that Changed the World.

At the end of October, we will remember this event. As Presbyterians, we are descendants of the Reformers. Yet, outside of Confirmation Class and Reformation Sunday, we don’t often reflect upon the Reformation and its impact on who we are and how we do things. As I looked at this fall, I wanted to find a way to commemorate “the day that changed the world.”

My answer came in the June issue of Reformed Worship. The issue included an essay by retired history professor, James R. Payton, Jr. In “Five Solas: Five Hundred Years and Still True,” Payton points out that five statements served as the foundation for the Reformation. In Latin, each statement includes the word, “sola,” which means alone. The Five Solas are:

Sola gratia—“By grace alone;”

Sola fide—“By faith alone;”

Solus Christus—“Christ Alone;”

Sola scriptura—“Scripture Alone;” and

Soli Dei Gloria—“To God alone (be) glory.”

Beginning Sunday, September 10, we will look at the first three Solas in September and we will pick up the last two Solas in November.

If you would like to know more about the Protestant Reformation, please check out the video on our Media Center page.

Fear is the overriding issue in our church. It does not seem to matter whether it is a thousand member congregation with a million dollar endowment or a ten member congregation without indoor plumbing. Everyone thinks the church is two Sundays away from closing its doors. Fear so permeates the PCUSA that people smell it on us when they come into our churches. We Presbyterians worry about declining membership. We fret about losing our young people and our relevance in an increasingly secular society. We’re afraid of change, and of drifting away from our Biblical moorings. Most of all we fear conflict.

When you look at my sermons, you will notice they are not in a standard format of paragraphs. Instead, they look like they might be blank verse or something else. I borrowed this approach to writing a sermon from the late Peter Marshall, who served as pastor of New York Avenue Presbyterian Church in Washington, D.C. and as the Chaplain to the United States Senate in the 1940s. The format helps me with my delivery as it makes it easier for me to see where to pause and what to emphasize. Also, to be honest, it’s kind of a Holy Spirit thing, because it’s how I feel most comfortable writing and preaching my sermons.